| In Which I Play Cricket With a Skeleton... | |||
| 10:23pm 06/04/2009 | |||
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Last night I had two very strange nightmarish dreams. The first happened just a few second after I drifted off. Perhaps I was thinking about cricket after just having watched Slumdog Millionaire, but I dreamt I was in a cornfield around dusk. The sky was an orange-pink and it must have been late October. Carved into the field was a cricket oval. Mark you, ladies and gentlemen, that while I have witnessed cricket matches and even swung a cricket bat at a cricket ball, I know little about cricket. I was standing in front of the wicket wearing baseball attire (hitched up socks, so it must have been an old school uniform). A skeleton was the opposing bowler. This was unsettling enough, but the skeleton ran up to the pitch and repeatedly tried to bowl balls directly at my head as if it were trying to kill me. This continued until Maria woke me up because I had mumbled "cricket" in my sleep and began sobbing. The second dream came while I was in a deep, numb sleep. The kind that, when you wake from it, makes reality seem only half-real. I was staying with a family in a futuristic Washington, D.C.. Their house, for whatever reason, was situated on top of a waterfall. Behold the recurring theme of libraries in my dreams returned. I was looking for books in the Library of Congrefs (which looked nothing like the real Library of Congrefs). The librarian/page in this library was a robot, one with an extremely realistic body from the waist up. Below was something more like a Dalek. Everyone seemed to love and appreciate what the robot did... except for me of course. I noticed that, for supposedly being so well-programmed, this robot had a bad habit of bumping into me while I was searching for books in secluded parts of the library and whispering terrifying things at me. It occasionally told me how it killed patrons and would hide the bodies around the library - using their skin for binding. It even told me its ultimate plan was to destroy the American government. This was too terrifying even for me, and I ran full clip out of the library with the robot chasing after me and laughing. I awoke from this in a puzzled daze, drool in the corner of my mouth. I had to recount what I had just seen. Where do my dreams come from and what the hell do they mean? Maybe I shouldn't have had so much shellfish (4 bacon-wrapped scallops and 3 oysters) last night. |
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| In Which I Must Review Hair... | |||
| 07:50pm 16/03/2009 | |||
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A few years ago I saw a severely substandard staging of Hair performed by some people I knew from Stony Brook. My biggest problem with the production was that I was sitting "Indian style" for nearly 3 hours, and being a large man, my extra weight teetering on my coccyx made for an extremely unpleasant time. Also, for Christ's sake, classically staged hippy-dippy 1970s rock musicals in a University atmosphere is just... cheap. Really, really cheap. Jump in my Time Machine and fast forward to last week. I was forced to see the revival of Hair on Broadway. Honestly, I thought someone would have had to strap me to a wheelchair and duct tape my eyelids open to get me to watch this show again. I loathe all things that glorify the hippie movement, which did precisely nothing to ameliorate the wanton, wasteful destruction and death in which the United States and Vietnam were engaged. Invoking Eastern deities and amalgamated hodgepodges of religions whilst filling your bloodstream with a whole candy store of narcotics is no way to end war. I take my lesson in fighting the war from Arlo Guthrie: "If you wanna end war and stuff you gotta sing loud." Hair takes the two aforementioned means of vociferating one's government protestations, and perhaps in the end let's Arlo's method win out. Let me get down to the point. I'm being asked to review Hair right now. And I want to be perfectly frank. Tears welled up in my eyes during the final number: "Let the Sun Shine In." The entire cast sang the famous song with its beautiful, haunting harmonies as a gentle theater-snow fell. The character who is shipped off to fight in Vietnam is laid out on an American flag wearing full Army regalia. The music cuts and the cast continues singing "Let the sun shine... let the sun shine" as they proceed out of the theater. My thoughts immediately turned to Jordan, who was struck down in his heroic efforts to save his friends and wards at such a cruelly young age. I was touched very deeply even though I thought I would be huffing and ho-humming throughout the entirety of the show. Now... how do I review this? How do I go about saying how deeply I was touched when I'm supposed to be remarking on staging and pertinence to today's society? To be honest, I just started writing this journal entry to put down my thoughts and see if something doesn't coagulate out of this soupy miasma of confusion and ambivalence. Anyhow... looks like I'll be student teaching next fall. How fun it is to get one's life back on track. It only costs a fortune. |
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| In Which The Wind Picks Up and I Almost Shoot My Mouth Off... | |||
| 06:06pm 19/12/2008 | |||
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I recently decided to get my life back on track. I crawled back to Stony Brook and begged them for a degree. Little did I know that they would welcome me, sobbing, back into their arms. But honestly, I was really refreshing knowing that there were people out there that missed me at the university - who believed I would be back. Susan didn't even remove my folder from her shelf. All I need to graduate is a DEC G class and a 300-level History class, which will be fulfilled in the form of a really lame Theater class and History of US and Latin American Relations in Sports (meaning baseball, I hope). I will be completing both at Stony Brook's Manhattan campus. The only thing between me and my certification is a silly student teaching class. This is a pressing issue. But I've sought to dodge it altogether. I noticed an ad for the NYC Teaching Fellows on the subway. Now, Maria has been a dedicated fellow helping out autistic children in a poor area of Brooklyn. She comes home tired and occasionally sad, but the overwhelming sense I get from her is that of accomplishment. She really enjoys what she does in the daytime. That's not to say she really enjoys her master classes in the evenings, but who would after a laborious day chasing kids around a building and cleaning up after them? I checked the qualifications for a teaching fellow in the upcoming June program. I could have sworn I had too many Education credits in college to be considered for the position. It turns out, I'm still 3 credits shy of their ceiling. I immediately leaped onto the opportunity and quickly filled out an application. Just a week later, and I received an email asking me to attend an interview on January 24th. Honestly, I really feel like I can nail this. Since I toyed with the idea of becoming a teacher back in junior year of high school, I've been told I'd be an awesome teacher - how anyone would love being in my classroom. And, if you don't mind this temporary lapse into self-adoration, I do believe I could be a great teacher. I'm knowledgeable, funny, and have a really good stage presence. What else do I need but a little bit of grit, determination, a work ethic, and an endless supply of coffee to keep me going? Maybe a couple more ties. Yeah, I can do this. So kids, it looks like I'm finally going to be getting my life back on track. It's been a painful two years, but I can finally see some light at the end of the tunnel. And in all, things really weren't that bad. I saved money for a while. I gained the experience of falling into a friend's debt. I found a wonderful girl who loves me and whom I love back. I made a beautiful bunch of friends, especially Anthony, who made these challenging times just a little bit easier. Honestly, I will look fondly back on those nights trekking into the cold around the corner to drink some beers and watch Doctor Who... maybe stroll over to the Half Penny or gather some buds for half priced appetizers and twofer beers. Minus a couple of fights with my understandably upset parents, I wouldn't change much of these past couple of years. It's been... enlightening - dare I say fun? And then... an insult arrived in my inbox. A few of you may be aware that I applied to HSBC Bank as a teller a few months ago. This was before my decision to go back and finish school. Well, the fuckers rejected me. This isn't entirely surprising. I mean, my interview was on the very day that the government decided to bail out AIG. That's right - the very first sign of the economic apocalypse which now befalls us. Why shouldn't a bank panic? Anyway, they offered me a much lower paying part-time job via telephone. I asked a couple of questions regarding the position, only to be met with dodgy answers. The next day, I received an email telling me that I was no longer considered for the position... after I was essentially told I had the job at the interview. What lousy news. Well, look what I just received in the mail today: Dear William Olsen-Hoek, Thank you for your interest in a position at HSBC. Recently you posted for the Branch Customer Service Coordinator- 5th Ave position, requisition id 77568 on our website. Your qualifications have been reviewed against the requirements for this opening. At this time we have decided to pursue candidates with skills that more closely meet the job requirements. Therefore, you have been removed from consideration for this position. We encourage you to continue looking on our website for other opportunities you think might be a fit with your background. For your convenience I have included a link to our Careers page. Again, thank you for your time and interest in HSBC. I wish you success in obtaining the position you desire. www.hsbcusa.com/careers Jennifer P. Cassese- Recruiter, HSBC Bank Adding insult, the email came from a noreply address. How am I supposed to defend my honor?! I found Jennifer's email, and began writing: Jennifer, I would appreciate if your bank would kindly stop repeatedly contacting me regarding my ineligibility for a position I applied to three months ago. I no longer wish to work for any banking institution as it seems signing a contract with one is akin to surrendering one's livelihood to the Federal Government in light of the most recent troubles on Wall Street. You never quite know when one needs to be bailed out of one's own troubles, eh? While I most assuredly enjoyed sitting through an interview where I was essentially told I was hired, only to be rejected three weeks later, I fear that I can no longer tolerate your company's emails wasting space on my inbox. Also, would you kindly pass along my sincerest thanks to whoever called me regarding a much lower paying position. Her skillful adroitness at dodging honest questions was charming to say the least. Thank you for your kind attention, and I do hope that your Asian bank fares well in this economic downturn! Sincerely, W. Olsen-Hoek Well, I chickened out and didn't send it. Don't want Uncle Peter to get in trouble. But... well, sometimes it's good to get these letters out of your head. Anyhow, let's see where life takes me. At least a big gust of wind has filled my sails again, as I make for the uncharted waters of a New World. Wish me luck. |
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| In Which We Visit a Dive Bar for Fun, Being a Significant Sign of Our Times... | |||
| 12:36am 28/10/2008 | |||
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Life is pretty... hard right now. And while I'm sure the rest of America suffers with me, I can't get past the fact that I'm 24, still work at that fucking coffee shop, can't afford to pay my very good friend my half of the rent, and don't know what kind of deal Stony Brook would be willing to cut me. It is true that I will be visiting my bitch alma mater, but even when it eventually coughs up a wad of phlegm and bile and blood and tears that my mother will have framed and put on the wall in her office (because I certainly don't want Stony Brook's ugly ass diploma on my wall... hell, I don't want the paper anyway), that doesn't guarantee that my future will be any brighter. Then what will I do with myself to get back on the track to being a teacher. This is a difficult question to answer, being that the track offered by the University was BULLSHIT! ABSOLUTE AND UTTER BULLSHIT! Never did I feel as if I were wasting more time in my life than sitting in the backs of classrooms being forced to take notes on why such and such a teacher was following Piaget's principles of blahblahblah state guidelines of blahblahblah critical development blahblahblah. Having a teacher for a girlfriend (and here, "teacher" is an understatement meant to hold the place for the actual job title of "keeper of rambunctious, uncooperative autistic children in a poor, underfunded section of Brooklyn, New York, a part of the marvelous and much valued New York City Department of Education") I have come to understand that you don't learn to be a teacher with Piaget and guidelines and text books and red tape. You wake up in the morning, coax yourself out of a sleepy daze with coffee, work your ass off all day, and drink a small portion of your paycheck away on Friday. And if I, William, am not capable of such a thing, that I'm scarcely fit to call myself human. So is this where my dreams die? Anyone who knows me knows of my... temperaments. One day he wants to be an author. The next an actor. A chef. A lawyer. A pediatrician. Holy Roman Emperor. My rambling ambitions have gotten the better of me in life, this is true. This is a large portion of why I ultimately ended up in my sticky predicament that had viciously snowballed. What was once a bothersome sand trap has become a seemingly insurmountable chasm of hopelessness, broken only by the beautiful heavenly glow of the support of my dear friends (especially Jon), my wonderful family (especially mom), and the brightest star of all, Maria. And while I have continued to anesthetize myself with Doctor Who and They Might Be Giants and the occasional splurge on an oyster dinner or theater tickets, I have come to realize it's time to buckle in and ride out this oncoming Great Depression II by turning to the career that I have most likely been meant for this whole time - teaching. I can do it. Everybody knows I can do it. And I think I'd be a wonderful teacher. So let's make it happen. Hell, maybe even the warm sun will rise again on the frozen, morbid economic landscape when on January 20th of next year Barack Obama treats this Great Depression II like FDR did Great Depression 1. Only let's hope he won't be wheelchair bound, incapable of not cheating on his wife, and certainly not friends with alcoholic British Prime Ministers. Enough seriousness, let's get to the funny part. Derek has a book that catalogs the best dive bars in New York City. The entire thing is a joy to read, mostly due to the author's impeccable way of describing the depravity of the more god-forsaken watering holes of America's most "New Yorkly" city. Throughout the book there is reference to one bar in particular - a frightening place covered in graffiti, lacking refrigeration, replete with heroin addicts, and sporting a bathroom so vile that a Petri dish would vomit at the very thought of having to be swabbed with anything contained therein. It is called Mars Bar - just a skip north of the F Train stop at 2nd Ave. We had to test this place out, and forthwith we visited after having seen a matinee showing of Spamalot (which will not herein be discussed). IT DID NOT DISAPPOINT! Nearly every inch of wall and ceiling was covered in crude language and sexual innuendo (though we did not espy the famous "L'etat c'est moi" which is supposedly inked upon the ceiling - though we did notice several markings hailing Satan). There were no beer taps, but this was hastily solved by the mountains of beer boxes lining the bar back. It was dark. Dangerously dark. The type of dark where you have to squint to read the unheeded Surgeon General's Warning on your cold one. The jukebox was entirely dependent upon being fed with patron's dollars. When it wasn't being used, the bar was eerily silent, save for the bits of strange conversations that would waft over the ancient booze-perfumed air from the strange patrons scattered about the confines. It is something that is best experienced rather than being told about, so I must instead tell you about the man who we experienced there. At the end of the bar was a man with a thick, gruff British accent. All of his regal Rs and Ss were elongated by the speech-whittling effects of alcohol, though his tone was not unpleasant on the ears. He told us of how he shared a kiss with one of the barmaids! "Amy kissed me just last night. I remember it well. It wasn't quite..." "Shut up! I didn't kiss you," Amy retorted. "Well, no... yes. Yes she did. It was 40% lip contact. Maybe. No. That would be considered a kiss then. I would say 35% lip contact." He told us about Norwegian pop groups of the 1970s! "Before there was ABBA, there was BABBA. They were a Norwegian group fronted by Charles Dikkens. That's with two Ks. He was of course best known for his literary work including A Tale of Two Titties and The Shitwick Papers." He told us of the uncircumcised state of his penis! "I am British! In Britain we don't believe in the barbaric practice. Excuse me love, have you ever been with an uncircumcised man?" "I've had... several men," replied the girl to whom he addressed the question. "It just means there's more pleasure to go around, am I right? I'm quite happy with my one eyed trouser snake. My hooded one-eyed trouser snake." He told us of an interesting night at the bar! "Do you remember that one night there were two girls fucking around in the bar? Amy jumped over the bar and grabbed one 'round the neck. My hooded one eyed trouser snake was never the same." Oh and how we laughed. See, things can't all be that bad, can they? I just need to put things in perspective, and get this derailed train back on track. And with an ego as vast and well-pampered as mine, the sky is the limit. And here I go, as a hooded one-eyed trouser snake upstream into the future! Good night, lovelies! |
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| In Which a Hero Falls Most Ungracefully From The Pantheon... | |||
| 01:43am 20/07/2008 | |||
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It wasn't huge news. Not a lot of people know about it. It's the time of thing that celebrity rags eat up, bur normally when the celebrity is someone that would cause the American public to salivate at the sight of their catastrophe. But this hits very close to home and actually bothers me, though I've tried my best to make light of the situation... even to make fun of it. Steven Page, the bespectacled co-frontman and founding member of one of my favorite bands - Barenaked Ladies - was arrested last week. He was found in the upstate home of his girlfriend snorting cocaine. He admitted that the substance he was taking was cocaine, was jailed and arrested, placed on $10,000 bail. Lucky for Mr. Page, all those childish musings on what he would do with $1,000,000 came true after the success of the Stunt album, thanks to the fabled success of the somewhat obnoxious single, One Week. He was able to bail out his girlfriend as well. Now, I know what you're thinking. This type of thing happens all the time to celebrities. Famous people seem to collect felony drug charges and misdemeanors, and the public forgives them. Each arrest is almost like an added medal of coolness, signifying that, by our own decision, an elite group of rich people are just one step above the law. They "clean up," brush themselves off, and the whole thing becomes delicious late-night TV fodder. But I used to... I'll admit it... unhealthily idolize Mr. Page. Here was your typical overweight nerd with depression issues succeeding at expressing his thoughts and ideas in an artistic way. I really loved Barenaked Ladies music for a span of - ahem - way too many years. It got to a point where almost all of my musical taste was based on the band and related music. Pretty sick. And luckily a phase that passed with time... though, once again, perhaps too much time. Barenaked Ladies seemed your typical group of Canadian men. All seemingly friendly and agreeable. Squeaky clean nerds with a taste of catchy melodies and sweet, sticky harmony. How can you not love a band like this? A band whose fans used to shower them in macaroni and cheese. A band who could make you smile with music, but brood depressingly over lyrical choices. Good guys. Certainly not your typical rock trash whose prime directive is to live as short as possible and consume as many mind-bending chemicals as is humanly possible in that short time. Family men. Steve himself was married for nearly 15 years and had three boys with that wife. Now, 10 years after the summer smash Stunt, he is arrested on cocaine possession, admits to using the drug, and is caught, of all places, in the house of his girlfriend with whom he had a fight in a bar earlier - a fight apparently started because of him accusing her of flirting with other men. This was a man known for having four eyes, not double standards. Also shameful is the nature of their most recent album, Snack Time. A few weeks ago, I had the privilege to sit in a Sirius Satellite studio and listen to the band perform tracks from the new album. They also politely signed the record and posed for a picture with me. The album is their first effort in turning out CHILDREN's MUSIC. And why not? It's a trend in the alternative nerd rock genre started by They Might Be Giants. Infectious melody and charming wordplay with an intimate understanding of audience... kids eat that stuff up. They Might Be Giants were hugely successful in entering the genre, mostly because, as Sarah Vowell has put it, they're the type of rock star that you might actually want to hang out with. Strange, actually, the parallels between the bands. Similar crowds, genres... hell, even the frontmen are somewhat similar - one a moodier, bulkier bespectacled extrovert, the other a thinner man more concerned with producing good music. But, you really can't sing to children after admitting to snort cocaine, can you? BNL have already canceled their appearance at Disney's Block Party event (something TMBG will be attending) in light of Page's actions. And what disturbs me most is the ends to which overzealous fans go to defend Page. On the major fansite, barenaked.net (don't visit it... it's rubbish), people say he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or that there must be some misunderstanding. There's no misunderstanding. He was doing something considered criminal in our country (even though the very illegality ofdrug use isn't in keeping with our rights granted in the Bill of Rights). It's not a misunderstanding. He did, as I've repeated, admit to doing it. He must have known there may have been consequences for his actions, as anyone engaging in illegal activity does. And now, it is his time to pay. Oh, and he'll pay... he'll pay the way every celebrity does. Public service announcements. Free anti-drug concerts. Appearances on reality television programs designed to get addicted celebrities to kick the habit. Oh, what a miserable existence to suffer for your crimes in the limelight. To be a caged animal for the amusement for New Rome. Poor soul. Well, I want to send my deepest sentiments to Carolyn Ricketts, Issac, Benjamin and Jonah Page... collectively his estranged family. And also to Ed, Jim, Tyler and Kevin, his bandmates. Steve's carelessness has left an indelible stain on an otherwise pristine and happy image. There's no telling what effect this will ultimately have on the band. And finally, I would like to publicly state how unhappy I am with his actions. Yes, drug laws may be rubbish. And yes, it's legal to leave your family for the comfort found in extramarital affairs. And I realize this can happen to anyone. But the fact that a man I respected and admired for so long could so shamefully abandon his good senses and ruin a successful career and tarnish an otherwise reputable band's good name hurts. It hurts very badly. I think that's all I have to say about it. ...and for the record, my mother had to convince me not to sell all my BNL merchandise (signed albums, a signed guitar) on eBay. I dunno, though. Maybe Steve's autograph might be worth something now that there might be market scarcity thanks to a possible 15 year stay in an American prison... |
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| In Which I Have Moved to New York City... | |||
| 02:08am 30/05/2008 | |||
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Hello everyone. It has been quite some time since I've lasted updated. Hell, it's been long enough a time that I find it somewhat difficult to type on a keyboard. I rarely use the internet anymore (being that my fossilesque computer doesn't want to cooperate) which may explain my recent lack of contact with many of you. I assure you that I am quite healthy (barring a strange outburst of peculiar lumps on my right ring and pinkie fingers) and quite alive. And now to the question that I'm sure plagues many of your minds - why the sudden and impromptu move? Well, to put it succinctly, Sayville was killing me. Don't get me wrong. As I typed that last sentence, pangs of separation sickness coursed about my nervous system. It's such a pretty little town. So quiet. So happy with itself. Such a happy neighbor of the Great South Bay. And I do love it so. But, when I get painfully honest with myself, it was killing me. I lived in the upstairs of a split-level house that I've lived in since 1991. We moved there when the economy went sour in the early '90s and Bayport School District went on austerity. No hot lunches. First-year teachers laid off. Generally a bad living scene. The house in Sayville has been owned by my family since the '50s. It's an older house that has a history of burning down. By the end of my tenure there, I was beginning to wonder when and if and would it eventually decide to burn down. I flipflopped between relishing and utterly lamenting such an event coming to pass. At my wits' end, an opportunity landed in my lap. On 160th Street and Riverside Drive in Manhattan lived my friends Jon and Adrienne. They had lived there for a certain number of years. I had met them through my doomed and tumultuous relationship with V. I became good friends with them. Jon would even come out to Long Island for adventures on the strange and wonderful Fire Island. A few months ago, Adrienne decided to take a new job in Boston. She would be moving there in about six weeks. On the night that it became apparent that Adrienne would be moving out, Jon called me up and asked just how soon I wondered I'd be able to move to the city. I was sort of dumbstruck. I had dreamt repeatedly of moving to my beloved city, but never really put dollar signs and beneficial values on the daydream. Without thinking really I said "whenever." I don't think I have all the money. I certainly don't have the steady, well-paying job. But I do believe that I have the audacity to do such a thing. The capacities for shame and ignominy are not something that ever came easy to me. And so, a trip to Ikea and a small catastrophe involving transferring to a new Starbucks store and suddenly I find myself a bona fide New Yorker - every Long Islander's worst nightmare realized in beautiful, grainy technicolor. But I fail (or at least refuse) to find any negatives to what I've done. I'm much closer to my sweetheart. I have access to many more employment opportunities. I never again have to find myself drowning sorrows in Guinness at the Half Penny Pub. I can at last legitimately and un-hypocritically make fun of nerds who live with their parents. I can basically try and be myself like I always wanted to do but wouldn't allow myself. That feathery cushion of parental support, while unmistakably and inexpensively comfortable just does a great deal more harm to the personality as the years pass. I've seen what living with parents for too long can do to a person. And I cannot imagine allowing myself to become a victim of such masochism. However, I do miss my beloved Sayville. My funny coworkers who know and love me. Mom's extraordinarily refrigerator-friendly lasagna. The 6-minute walk to work. My unofficial mayoral title. My queer little seaside paradise. I do love it so. But it was high time that it and I got a good amount of time apart to better get to appreciated one another. And so, I really apologize for not always being available like I once was. I really don't mean anyone harm or malice. I love and like everyone the same as I always have, though occasionally my preoccupation with breaking in a new life may mar normal communications with my glorious, sainted past. You all know that so long as I have breath in my lungs that I sing the praises of my dear friends - and nowadays is no different. Just give me time to de-ice and refuel so that I may better myself and thus be a better friend. Also, I may have been reading a lot of Vladimir Nabakov lately, so I apologize if all this sounded Euro-trashy and overly emotional. I'm still good old Willie / Will / BillChas. My favorite movie is still Withnail & I. My favorite show is still Doctor Who. My favorite cuisine is still cajun. My favorite book is still A Confederacy of Dunces. I still root for the Mets. I still enjoy stimulating conversations and alcohol. I still like hot dogs, baseball and beer - especially when consumed at the same moment. Ditto for the conversation and alcohol. Wish me luck. |
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| 11:22pm 22/04/2008 | |||
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This was has finally struck painfully close to home. My mom came home this afternoon after I had just ordered Flags of Our Fathers on Demand. When she saw what was happening on screen, tears filled her eyes and she asked if I could turn it off just for today. Naturally I turned and asked her what happened. "J--- was killed in Iraq yesterday." And my heart sank. Years ago, Aunt Karla dated a guy named C--- in Sag Harbor. He had a son named J---. As the relationship passed from months into years, Karla and J--- had developed a pretty strong bond of their own. It's only natural in a small house. And as time wore on, Jess and I began to acknowledge that at some point this kid could eventually be our cousin. True, we never really knew him well, but in our family, we're often a little quick in accepting people in as our own. I distinctly remember one time when grandma wanted to buy Jess and me kites for the upcoming summer. Not wanting J--- to feel left out, she also ordered him a kite as well - one of those purple ones shaped like a shark. So you see, he was in some small special way a piece of our extended family. Well, adult relationships have the unparalleled capacity to turn sour quickly. And Aunt Karla eventually left C--- and moved to Patchogue. Still, the special bond J--- and Aunt Karla shared never faded. She would still flip through pictures of him all smiles calling him "my boy." A month ago, I heard that J--- wanted to join the armed forces and carry on duties in Iraq. I didn't think much of it at the time. I was puzzles more than anything. This unnecessarily protracted war just seemed to volatile to willingly enter. With a shrug, I went about my business silently wishing him luck. But I learned today that luck alone doesn't protect you. At around 7:30am on April 22nd, a suicide bomber in Ramadi, Iraq ended the life of this young man far sooner than it should have ended. Nineteen years old. Five years younger than myself. How much life I've lived in those five years. How much life he'll miss. It hurts so much to ponder. I can't fathom it. It's not enough. And his death is felt deeply here. Everyone take a moment to appreciate everyone you love around you. And let us hope this senseless conflict ends soon. |
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| In Which It's Suntory Time... | |||
| 10:27pm 03/04/2008 | |||
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I've been putting off making a journal update because I wanted to save it to brag about the tremendous Doctor Who scarf that Maria has finished for me. I was going to post a bunch of pictures of me showing it off. But since weather and batteries haven't yet been on our side for such a post, I'll save it for later, and instead share another one of my bizarre dreams that I believe other people would find baffling and entertaining. I didn't sleep the night before last because I was closing and had to open the very next morning. I instead have a few Guinness with Kyla and Anthony at the local pub. Afterwards, I spent my time playing Wii and watching Flight of the Conchords. When 5:15am rolled around, I went to work. By 9:15am I was back in my bed for a nap. When I awoke around 4:00pm, I went downstairs to consider dinner. I was hit with a powerful craving for a Suntory on the rocks. Where this craving came from I have no idea, since I've only had Suntory a handful of times. Nevertheless, it was there. I even watched a couple Suntory ads starring Francis Ford Coppola and Sean Connery on which Bill Murray's character was based in the film Lost in Translation. Perhaps it was my inability to sate this urge that sparked the dream I had this morning. I dreamed that I had a rather famous historical writer and that I had recently published a new book about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. How someone could write an entire interesting book about this single act is beyond me, but that's what I had done in the dream. I took my family, including mom, dad and my sister to Hawaii to visit the USS Arizona memorial. For those of you who don't know about it, the memorial is actually in the middle of the harbor directly over the wreck of the ship - which apparently still leaks fuel into the warm Hawaiian water over 66 years after it sank under Japanese fire, killing 1,177 sailors. I have never seen it in person (though I very much want to), but I can imagine what a haunting and powerful image it must be. My book had become popular in Japan for one reason or another. I was apparently well known in that country and as such, the Suntory company asked for me to do a commercial for their whiskey. Akira Kurosawa was to direct the commercial, so I agreed. Then I found out that they wanted to film the commercial at the site of the Arizona wreck. I found myself there with cameras and lighting fixtures aimed at me with Kurosawa pacing while barking and mumbling orders in Japanese to his workers. As I looked around and realized what I was doing, I started crying. And I could feel the very warm tears on my cheek. I remember dropping my glass and walking away from it all. Back at a hotel my family consoled me and told me not to worry about what I had done. I felt as if I had desecrated a holy place - a place where 1,177 died in a surprise attack that ultimately led to the United States' history-altering declaration of war on the Empire of Japan and its allies in World War II. It was a pretty dreadful feeling for sure. And I think I'm human enough not to acquiesce to something like that in my life. At least I hope I am. Anyhow, that's the type of stuff I dream about. I'll talk about this scarf when I return from Boston. Ciao. |
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| In Which People Don't Watch What They Spend... | |||
| 09:02pm 27/02/2008 | |||
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Okay, I met They Might Be Giants again. Again it was with my lovely Maria. And again I blew it in conversation - this time not even attempting words. But at least I have an autographed copy of their original album on vinyl. It's on my wall. With my name in enormous block letters stretching onto the back cover. I'll show you some time. But tonight we're discussing weird coins. I live in a little seaside hamlet on Long Island. It's not an especially famous place - unless you happen to be a homosexual who enjoys visits to Fire Island, a worshiper of Father Divine, a relative of Melissa Joan Hart, a descendant of a World War I German telegraphone technician, or an oyster aficionado. And thus it boggles my mind as to how this stuff comes out of peoples' pockets in Starbucks. Oh, everyone is used to the occasional Canadian coin mysteriously appearing in your pocket. You go home, throw it in some jar thinking it's valuable, and forget about it forever... until you realize it's currently worth more than its American equivalent (ahem). But take a look at this stuff that ends up in our tip jars and tills.  I was going to number them, but instead we'll go by rows. They are: Row I: 5 Centavos (dated 2000) from Ecuador 25 Cents (dated 2002) from the East Caribbean States 50 Pfennig (dated 1877) from Deutches Reich (proto-Germany) Row II: 100 Korean Won (dated 1979) 1 Jamaican Dollar (dated 2005) 1 Cent (dated 1990) from Trinidad & Tobago 10 Cents (dated 1971) from Bermuda Row III: Chuck E. Cheese Token (dated 1999) 5 Peruvian Centavos (dated 1967) An American Indian Head Nickel (date unknown) One Cent (dated 2001) from Bermuda Row IV: 25 Cents (dated 1976) from the Netherlands (I think) 1 Thai Baht (unknown date - near 1992, though) 1 American Cent (dated 1905) ...I just really like finding these. I've definitely gotten some other weird ones that I just don't have on hand right now. But look at some. One is from 1877 from a country that doesn't technically exist anymore. Another one has been replaced by the Euro. I didn't even know there was a confederation called the East Caribbean States. And who knew how adorable Peruvian coins were? How come Bermuda has flowers and pigs on their coins while America can only compel itself to put dead white men and banal, iconic images from various states on its coins? It's kind of fun to see what other countries value enough to put on their money and to even see how style changed. You should see the oak leaves and American flag-themed shield crowning ONE CENT that decorate the obverse of the Indian head - actually, I should say Liberty dressed as an Indian (for that's what it is) - penny. Compare that to the fairly straightforward Lincoln Memorial on the modern obverse. We used to have "gods" and anthropomorphic ideas on our coins. Now we have humans who occasionally did marvelous things, and occasionally went around the Louisiana Purchase wantonly killing Indians - COUGH JACKSON COUGH - on our money. So I just thought I'd share some with you. I would've scanned the car wash tokens that we get as tips, but other baristas actually put them to good use. |
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| In Which I Dream, A Celebrity Writes Me (Again)... | |||
| 04:36pm 12/02/2008 | |||
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Note the comma in the title. Last night just as I drifted off to sleep, I had a bizarre dream. This should come as a surprise to no one. The dream began with a armor-clad knight-looking guy talking to an enormous supercomputer in a very well lit, glass-ceilinged atrium. I suppose this was an important environment for this particular supercomputer, as the thing appeared to be a huge triangular prism made of flowering plants, with some triangular red stained glass thingamabobs crowning the whole monstrosity. The supercomputer urged this knight to find a golden cup hidden somewhere in the labyrinthine mansion. This mansion was huge and fashioned entirely of white marble accented with exotic woods. The knight took off up a staircase and seemingly knew his way around the place. However, there were several suits of armor in various corners that came to life upon realizing that the knight had entered the room. I don't remember being a physical part of this dream, but strangely enough I was struck with an arrow, which I nonchalantly removed from my side, continuing to follow the knight. We arrived in a room with a lit podium that definitely once housed the golden cup the supercomputer implored the knight to seek. He realized that the thing must have been taken. He made for the banister of the enormous central atrium where the computer sat and slid down. When he arrived, the computer had both the golden cup and another cup that looked like lacquered ebony. Obviously the gold cup was some sort of extremely positive force and the ebony cup - EEVEEL. The scene quited, and I could hear the computer "breathing" as it spoke. The knight asked why he was sent to find a cup that was in the computer's possession the whole time. The supercomputer merely stopped and thought for a moment, only to reply, "Don't bother questioning my judgments." Then I woke up. In another dream, my dad drove me to a place he called my grandmother's house, even though it certainly wasn't. We both put on gray suits with gray ties and gray shirts. I ran out of the house and into another car that my grandmother was driving. We began following, of all things, a man on a jet ski, down what looked like Brook Street. Only, when we got towards the end of the street, the jet ski morphed into a helicopter. Apparently this physical anomaly didn't computer even in my fucked up head, because the rider soon crashed onto the soccer field. When I glanced over to tell the driver, I had found that it was no longer my grandmother, but my mother, and that it had recently become twilight where only seconds ago it had been broad daylight. We turned to the railroad crossing while the gates were down. An eastbound train suddenly jolted north and we began cursing about how the gates shouldn't have come down for a northbound train. Then I noticed the line of traffic around us. They were all old Model Ts and there were some old advertisements for Carvel and a peanut company in antique neon lights. We crossed the tracks into a parking lot that was filled with broken down Studebakers and other reject cars from the 60s and 70s. The rest of the dream didn't make any sense, but... yeah. So let's talk about the letter I got. It was from Daniel Handler! The Magnetic Fields just came out with a new album called Distortion. The theme of this album is musical instruments having their regular sounds tampered with by means of electrical or physical distortion. The liner notes credited Daniel with accordion work, even though upon two listenings, I couldn't make out any accordion. What's the deal, I wondered. And so I thought I'd go straight to the source - ask the accordionist in a handwritten letter. Just this morning I opened this up:  For those of you who can't decipher his sanskrit-esque hand: Dear Mr. Olsen-Hoek I was flattered to receive your recent letter regarding my accordion playing which in my opinion you vastly overrate in quality but underate [sic] in existence. It is understandable, however - Mr. Merritt's production on Distortion called for several amplifiers hanging from the accordion and from my person, resulting in such feedback that the accordion is indistinguishable from the organ for the guitar. In fact my most audible moment on the whole album is uncredited - I play the final, arpeggiated piano on "Zombie Boy", ending with a jarring note resulting from an askew hammer inside the instrument. I cannot imagine that this will look any good framed. With all due respect, (signed)Daniel Handler The lesson here kids is to actually write to your favorite musicians, writers and actors. Occasionally you'll learn something cool - and have neat dreams, too. |
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| In Which Strange Things Happen... | |||
| 11:28pm 05/02/2008 | |||
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EIGHTEEN AND ONE! First strange thing of all, I would like to point out that of all the New York sports teams that I consider my favorites, the New York (Football) Giants were third on my list of potential candidates for winning their respective championships. The list went something like this: 1.) Metropolitans (baseball) 2.) Rangers (ice hockey) 3.) Giants (football) 4.) Knickerbockers (basketball) The Knicks are the atrocity I expected them to be. The Mets broke my heart, though the acquisition of pitcher Johan Santana was a pleasant surprise that leaves me hopeful for next season. And the Rangers have crushed my dreams; the articles in the Times and Newsday leaving me to believe that we merely had to sit by and wait for a Stanley Cup to slip into our lap. And sweet Jesus, I'm going to Mets Spring Training between March 10th and 13th. Anyway, I can't believe that the Giants went ahead and won the Super Bowl - against the undefeated Goliath known as the Patriots from New England. I was only 2 years old the last time that a New York team of mine punished a stereotypically Bostonian team - the Amazin' Mets in the 1986 World Series. It was pretty sweet to be alive and cognizant for something this epic. Congratulations Giants. But now, the more recent strange thing. Yesterday morning, I had to wake up very early. We had just celebrated a combination Maria's Birthday / Giants Victory Over The Patriots. It was an absolutely beautiful weekend. I got to show off my mother's meatball recipe. Maria turned 23. And Super Bowl XLII (that's right, FORTY-TWO) was won by the Giants. I took the 7:49am train from Penn Station to Sayville. I had work at noon. When I arrived home, I made myself some stew and sat in the living room to watch some Sports Center highlights of the Super Bowl. I kept hearing a very loud banging coming from the basement. It was much louder than the normal knocks I hear from the water heater - so much louder, in fact, that I thought it a good idea to call mom and ask if she had heard anything strange from the basement. A light snow began to fall, and I opened the basement's storm-cellar style doors. I hear a 'meow' coming from within. AHA! I thought. The cat had gotten into the basement and was knocking boxes over. Problem solved, I thought. I left the basement doors open to allow Thistle to get out. I went back to my television and lunch. A few minutes later, I noticed something strange. The banging from the basement continued, and I could hear Thistle's meow from both sides of the living room. I heard banging moving over to the north side of the room, followed by loud meows from that end. Next, I would hear banging towards the south, followed by meows from that wall. Weird, I thought. But... wait... no. I went down into the basement again and called both of my parents. I knocked on a heating duct that stuck out on the ceiling. I heard running around inside. Then I heard pained 'meows' coming from within. No way. How is this possible? My cat was stuck in the heating duct. To this moment, I still have no idea how she got in there. There are no external egresses. All of the places heat comes out are covered with metal vents. I asked my dad to come home, 'cause I was going to need help getting her out. I ran upstairs and got my Swiss army knife. I went to the heating vent nearest the door and listened for meows. I hear her loud and clear - as if she were right next to me. She was DEFINITELY down there, however she managed it. I unscrewed the paneling as my dad arrived home from work. Out popped Thistle's dust-covered face. Her eyes were dilated from the dark. She looked very unhappy. And naturally, seeing such a pathetic sight, I couldn't help but laugh controllably. Apparently the hole I had made for her wasn't big enough. She pawed and tried to climb out, somewhat painfully meowing the whole time. I tried a few times to grab her by the scruff and drag her out. These attempts were met only with scratches from her frustrated claws. After about 10 minutes, I had had enough of the grate. I got a towel from the bathroom, tried scaring Thistle away from the grate, and yanked the whole thing out of the wall. It was a little difficult removing something that had been bolted in place since the '50s, but after a little work, it came right out. I sat on the floor a little out of breath imploring Thistle to climb out by herself. She reached, pawed, and finally made it out - a tremendous ball of dust, fur and frustration. And what was the first thing she did? Purr and rub against my leg? Buy me a beer? No. She went right for her food bowl in the kitchen and took a nap. So that, dear friends, is how I saved my cat's life for a second time. The first was from the veterinarian's needle when Heather couldn't keep her in her new apartment. And now, I spared her from almost certain death at the hand's of my decades-old decrepit household's heating system. Go Big Blue! |
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| In Which The President Calls My Name in the Nighttime... | |||
| 10:21am 23/01/2008 | |||
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Maybe it's because Maria and I were discussing dreams last night, but I had... a classic one last night. I had just arrived in a town that reminded me of Pepperinge Eye from Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Sort of a sleepy English seaside town. I moved in with an old couple, but for what reason, I have no idea. At some point in the dream, Jeff arrived in a Jeep with another person whom I did not recognize. He told me that we were going to a They Might Be Giants concert. I hopped in, and off we drove to a really sunny beach. When we got there, I noticed there was a high school nearby, and that the concert was to take place in a covered arena that looked like a dug-in football stadium in the sand. This was strange, because we were walking down the stairs into the dug-out bowl, and suddenly it felt as if we were inside at a regular theater at night. The concert began... and I don't remember much about it, except that I had to apologize because it definitely wasn't the real They Might Be Giants. I mean, the Flansburgh they had played an accordion that was the size of a mattress - and he doesnt' even play the accordion. I walked back to where I was staying in Pepperinge Eye. The couple as it turns out had a young grandson. They picked up from my doing crosswords that I might be able to teach their grnadson some lessons in writing or grammar. They informed me to take the subway to the beach with the child and that there would be a small beer festival going on. We hopped on the subway and arrived. This place looked eerie and fake. Instead of a normal beach, it was like a small deck covered with that kind of fake grass they use at mini-golf courses. The images of the seaside around us looked like projections on a planetarium wall. I had a beer in my hand as I watched the boy playing in the "sand" and saw anachronistic people wearing the dress of bygone eras walking about. I occasionally gave the boy a puzzle to figure out. And this is where the dream really... did something to me. Someone from my past arrived, and asked me to join her on the subway. So I took the boy and we got on the subway. I was visibly upset, and I began to feel way too drunk for a single beer by the beach. The girl began reading me a poem intended to be some means of apology. And I pretended to cry when she finished. I glanced at the corner of the car and noticed a woman giving a sort of pathetic sneer, sort of a "I can't believe he found that touching." I immediately stopped my fake crying and the train came to a halt. The platform let out at the elder couple's house. The old lady told me that the house was now haunted and she was going to perform an exorcism. She showed me the room that was haunted. It was a catastrophe. Everything looked battered by the sea. And in a macabre discovery, I noticed that there were several human corpses buried around the place. The woman began singing a Disney-like song as she began to clean the room. As she did so, she would simply throw the 4 human corpses out the window. I looked out where she threw them, and saw their twisted limbs sticked out of the sand. The sea looked angry and was howling. It appeared that the last body she was to throw out, a young blond teenage girl, was the source of the haunting, because she came back to life and was spouting threats at both me and the couple. The fact that I was so unfazed and passive I was about this whole occurrence was underscored by the fact that someone walked in at that moment asking if I wanted to go to a secret bar. I still felt drunk, but said all right. We left the now very clean room that had recently been emptied of bodies. There was a small hallway that led to a spiral staircase. Most of the older residents of the town were going down these stairs, but a younger person told me to go to the secret party by going up the staircase instead of down. As I climbed it, it felt more like wet ropes than a solid metal spiral staircase. I reached the top, and noticed that there wasn't anywhere to go. Someone shouted that I needed to slide open a secret panel. I did so. The panel only slid up six inches. I saw a heater and a blue light bulb beyond, but nothing else. I assured the people people that neither I nor anyone else could possibly fit in it. This is where things get hazy. Because I remember ending up at a party that was obviously a front for some evil organization. A strange woman who looked like an Italian super model told me all about the evil that was going on. And if you really want to know what happens, you can ask me. Because it was weird. God, people... what's wrong with my head? |
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| In Which Buchanan Pounds Fuckin' Jager Bombs... | |||
| 11:24pm 12/12/2007 | |||
Chelsea turned me onto a web comic called Married to the Sea a while back. The normal format was that they'd take really old woodcuts and put funny anachronistic captions in them. Well, I thought I'd give it a shot. |
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| In Which I Am Rewarded For My Transgressions... | |||
| 12:10pm 08/12/2007 | |||
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Last night a few friends and I went to the Ha'penny Pub. There, Becki found out about my appreciation of the musical styling of The Smiths. So, we made our way over to the juke box with $2, which translated into number of songs amounts to 5. The songs we chose, in order were: Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now - The Smiths Panic - The Smiths Don't Let's Start - They Might Be Giants Killer Queen - Queen Be My Yuko (sic) Ono - Barenaked Ladies And because the juke was backed up with terrible music selections, mostly from the catalog of the sonic atrocity known as Journey, our selections didn't air until nearly an hour later. The first two selections came on, and I saw several delighted faces in the bar on people who hadn't heard those songs in quite some time. After the second came on, our friendly bartender approached me, offering an inverted plastic sample cup, normally used for shots. "Sir, a gentleman at the end of the bar would like to buy you a drink for breaking the first cardinal rule of the jukebox." "What rule? I didn't know there was a rule." "Playing the same artist twice in a row." Needless to say, this was responded to with hearty laughter. And so, ladies and people of the jury, that is how I earned myself a free Guinness last night. Let that be a lesson to anyone out there who finds him- or herself in a bar one evening strapped for cash. Just wander over to the jukebox with your last two dollars, and make sure you play the same artist twice in a row. |
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| In Which Another Author Responds to My Correspondence... | |||
| 11:42pm 02/12/2007 | |||
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This time, it was John Hodgman. I wrote him regarding a particular float displayed in the Thanksgiving Parade this year: Dear Sir, I am unsure if you were able to watch the Macy*s™ Thanksgiving™ Day Parade what with your busy schedule, but I do believe that this should be brought to your attention. In the course of this parade, which is clearly directed towards children, a float celebrating the American hobo in, of all things, snowman form made its way down the streets of Manhattan. Behold:  Adding insult to this atrocity was the wit-sapping list of puns spouted by television personality Matt Lauer when recalling this hobo snowman's sordid past, the most offensive of which was as follows: "The crash of the stock market caused his assets to FREEZE, leaving SNOWBO in desperate need of COLD HARD CASH." Do you suppose this was some attempt to lionize the American hobo on such a blatantly American holiday, or was this an attempt to jovially turn a festive blind eye to one of the most depraved and sinister takeovers of the United States Government? Quizzically Yours, William Olsen-Hoek And the unquestioned expert in all hobo matters replied this evening: I just feel bad for the orange-suited fellow the snowman crushed, and the other orange-suited man who doesn't know his life is about to end. Oh well. It's the little things in life that count. |
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| In Which Yet Another "Thing I've Never Seen on the Subway" Item Falls Off The List... | |||
| 11:41pm 01/12/2007 | |||
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Well, Adrienne and I wasted no time in returning to see Broadway shows. The very night that the curtains came back up, and she and I were sitting in the 4th row of a performance of Avenue Q, the second time I've seen it. Oh sure, I've listened to the cast recording dozens of times. I've performed Schadenfreude with Chelsea for the Sayville Show Off. I can do eerily accurate vocal impressions of Trekkie Monster and Nicky. It shouldn't be funny anymore. But I laughed a whole lot anyway. How could I but help myself? It was Adrienne's first time seeing it... maybe that's what helped me enjoy myself as much as the first time I saw it. That... and the fact that there were a whole lot of zeros after the dollar signs on my ticket. Like I've always said - and like I've always considered having embroidered, framed, and hung on my wall - "Free is my favorite price." The next day, I did a whole lot of nothing for the most part. I made Irish porridge (I'll replace it, Jon) and watched season 2 of Little Britain. My only gripe with season two? The mysterious Scottish guy who owns the B&B doesn't make a triumphant return! "If you ask me on Monday, I would say... a-yessssss." I then made for Union Square, where I did crosswords in the cold Christmas Market and scoured the vinyl section of the Virgin Megastore, looking for anything of value (that wasn't too expensive). Maria and I had a lovely evening comprised of chatting with her amazing friends from school and work, Greg, Guinness, Campari, and duck soup at Republic. All in all, for my second impromptu visit to the city in one week, I'd say it was pretty successful. And somehow, upon checking my bank account, I'm not poor - and may be able to buy Christmas presents for people this year! Hooray! "William," I can year you say. "The title of this entry doesn't seem to reflect what you've discussed thus far." By golly, you're right. I'll explain. Adrienne and I had just boarded the train for a return to Washington Heights. Something smelled like fermented, unwashed, urine-soaked, opiate ridden human being. Turns out, a fellow with a floppy red hunting cap sporting a regular wooden cane sitting next to a young woman dressed in clothing better suited for early spring than a cold winter's night were the source of the unpleasant odor. And folks, let me tell you, heroin is a hell of a drug. Adrienne's back was to the door and she was talking to me about knitting projects (a third member of our party was a large bag of yarn she had just purchased - which had to be inspected by a guard at the Golden Theater, whereas I, who had a Swiss Army knife in his bag, went by undetected). There was a small verbal argument going on between the odor's source. And then... well, let me show you what fell off the list of things I've never seen on a subway: "I've never seen a person expose his or her genitals on a subway." For some odd reason, this cracked out addict slipped off her jeans... yeah. I think she was complaining about something. Or trying to show her "friend" something. Or... she was doing something. But it was. And that, friends, is why you should never sit on a subway seat. In fact, just don't touch anything on a subway. Hands in pockets, head down, standing. But... otherwise, I had a lovely time, even if we didn't have enough time to go to the cloisters, I at least had Irish breakfast and morning cocktails with that cute girl what is knitting me a scarf. |
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| In Which My Dreams Continue to Puzzle... | |||
| 10:57pm 18/11/2007 | |||
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I had a dream last night that was... strange. It began early when I had one of those dreams you get just when you fall asleep. You know, when your head it jumbling funny ideas and turns out something absurd and altogether terrifying. I dreamed I was in a violent thunderstorm with Benjamin Franklin flying a kite when suddenly, thousands of beautifully intricate dinner plates with gold leafing and colorful vermiculation began raining down on us. That was the last thing I thought of until the morning when I had this dream: I was in a very peculiarly lit "Chinatown" in a city that was unfamiliar to me. There, I found something that was a mix between an apartment complex, a dormitory and a restaurant. For some reason, I needed to meet someone there who would help me blend in with the crowd. I was with a companion of sorts who was a mish-mash of several girls that I know. The thing about companions in my dreams is that they rarely remain the same long enough for me to describe them. Some person gave me a drink that tasted of warm sake that would make me appear to be an Asian woman... why? I don't know. But my companion was the only one who could see that it was really me. As I began descending the stairwell, I saw dozens of young Asian people throwing up over the balcony, apparently sick with alcohol poisoning. I pretty much ignored this, and began walking away into the darkness. Right now is when the dream got strange. I remember someone I was with cutting up a sea creature that looked something like mix between a squid and an octopus. Another person took large cubes of bacon and cuts of the octosquid creature, put them on a kebab skewer, and began roasting them over a fire. I remember being horrified at what I was seeing in the dream. When the cooking was done, someone offered me the "food" saying it was something like "satanic barbecue." I then woke up and did my best to recall the dream... but, like many of my dreams, it got lost in a haze of confusion and befuddlement. Psychoanalysts... do your worst. In other news, my mother has retired from the knitting project, and Maria has gallantly agreed to take up the burden. How can you possibly begin to repay someone for such a kind gesture as knitting a ridiculously long Doctor Who style scarf? Any ideas? Suggestions? They'd be greatly appreciated. Or perhaps I should just turn to my fucked up dreams for an answer. |
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| In Which I Panic on the Streets of Sayville... | |||
| 09:00pm 01/11/2007 | |||
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Today I had a panic attack. Back story! Dateline: Halloween 2007. What used to be a harmless holiday when I dressed like a wizard and knocked on doors asking for candy has, by my 23rd birthday, become an excuse to drink excessive amounts of alcohol. Several pumpkin ales and some rum punch later, I fell asleep sitting on a couch and didn't wake up until 8:00am. I was fresh as a daisy as you can imagine. No hangover. No. Still drunk. I called grandma and asked for a ride home, being that I was in Patchogue. My drowsy beer-soaked brain then gave me a friendly reminder - I promised to help Hayley with the Seattle order today. Hurrah! Starbucks has bought into the latest mania of allowing Christmas to devour the entire year. As such, we were expecting a big order filled with Christmas Blend and holiday mugs that we simply won't sell. It was a job that needed two people with good senses of humor. We got back to the house, I showered, listened to some songs to put me in a good mood, had a couple Fizzy Good Make Feel Nices (Alka-Seltzer Plus) and made my way to the coffee shop at 10:00am - or 10:03am by Linda's anal retentive attention to mundane details. When still-drunk young men have access to free caffeinated black beverages, they occasionally have a tendency to abuse the privilege. Today's blatant laugh in the face of good sense was a venti vanilla black eye with some milk. That's an iced coffee (you know, more caffeine than regular coffee 'cause it's double brewed) with two shots of espresso. TO WORK! 4 hours later, 4,000 items later, Hayley and I had torn apart 40 boxes of stuff and nonsense. Our little coffee shop really doesn't have any storage, so we just stashed the boxes in the corner. It was time to reward ourselves. I "rewarded" myself with ANOTHER VENTI VANILLA BLACK EYE! Let's review what's coursing through my veins at this point in the proceedings: 1.) Alcohol from the previous evening. 2.) Endorphins combating the pain and lack of good sleep. 3.) Acetaminophen from the Fizzy Good. 4.) Enough caffeine to power a Flux Capacitor. At about 3:45, it was time for lunch. I sat down with a sandwich and a crossword. It was a really good crossword - the kind that doesn't have Across and Downs because the numbered boxes that normally have both up and down clues begin with the same letter and are synonyms. Suddenly, I felt like I couldn't breathe. I felt for a pulse. My lips went numb. I suddenly felt death around me. I wanted to call for help. I needed help. I was dying or something. I was sure I was dying. I got up. I walked to the door. Blood was pounding pounding pounding. Death. This is it. I'm dying. I called my mom. "Mom..." "Are you okay?" "I think I'm having a panic attack." "I'll be right there." Everything was scary. I was filled with awful toxins. So much poison. I kept pulling at my hair and trying to find a calm spot, while phantom-like fears of death loomed over my shoulder and made my hair stand on end. What was this terrible thing? Why this panic? Mom came and told me to breathe deeply to get oxygen back in my suffocating body. The first wave passed... and a strange, twisted euphoria blew over me. I was happy to be alive. Saint Barbie, my new manager, kindly found someone to cover the rest of my shift. My mother gingerly took my arm and started walking me home, telling me about her future trip to grandpa's and assuring me that I wasn't going to die. It was strange, because I was just discussing at work that strange feeling that occasionally overcomes me - that I am sometimes convinced that I am dead. No, really. It's like some horrible daytime nightmare. I become convinced that I am dead and cannot persuade myself to believe otherwise. This eerily funny sensation usually wanes after I call a close friend and just start talking - that's right, if I randomly call you, it may be because I think I'm dead. I was discussing this phenomenon with Brett just today... and then this happened. While I was walking home with mom, I thought of every funeral I'd ever attended. I thought of how I cried as Ma's funeral, and ended up blubbering "I miss you" as I attempted to eulogize her. I thought of looking down at my grandfather's sunken sallow face in St. Ann's just a couple weeks prior. I thought of our family friend's wake - a man who died in his 50s of cancer. As we crossed the railroad tracks I thought of the girl who had committed suicide there years earlier - when I watched police working behind yellow tape as I walked home from school. I looked at the veins in my arms and thought they were turning purple. And all this time, my mother was joking and being the sweet thing she is in keeping me sane. I looked up at the November-jaundiced and mahoganied leaves. Another wave of euphoria, this time heightening my sensitivity to colors. I wondered at how beautiful they were... then how they were dying. Panic. Unwarranted panic. Panic from something that I love to see so much. How long would it last? How many more terrible waves of this adrenaline inspired walking nightmare? Mom got me into the house and told me to lie down on the couch. I kept feeling for my pulse to make sure it was there. I turned to the Discovery Channel and watched a couple idiots lose $1,300 because they didn't know what a mulligan is in golf terminology. I watched the Mythbusters blow up a cement mixing truck. I watched the Princess Bride. And suddenly death wasn't whispering awful threats into my ears. Slowly, the blood felt normal and warmed my toes again. Slowly my thoughts wandered to my beautiful friends. Slowly things started coming back to normalcy. After talking to Efren (who suffered his share of panic attacks) and Maria (whose daily routine with her students could induce panic attacks), the world was friendly and lovely again. A little Chinese food, an Excedrin for the massive headache that followed, a few big glasses of water, and here I am typing this whole thing up on a computer for you to read. I never want to feel that again. Ever. So... now I know what panic is, and I'll never, ever tell a person having a panic attack to simply get over it. It's pretty much the most awful thing I have ever experienced... except for maybe that time I paid $10.50 to see Across the Universe. |
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| In Which The Weekend is Practically Perfect in Every Way... | |||
| 10:43pm 15/10/2007 | |||
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Yes. This is one of those atrocious little entries where I detail what happened this past weekend because it was so nice. Bear in mind that I had the sniffles for the most of it. Add to that some achy joints, a low-grade fever, a constant stream of fizzy-good-make-feel-nice, and a runny nose, and you can see how this weekend pretty much wins. It began with Maria and I going to see The Darjeeling Limited, which I don't think I can rave about enough. It's already been well documented that Wes Anderson movies fit into "Snicket Rock," "that winsomely literary Bermuda Triangle defined by Wes Anderson, McSweeney's and They Might Be Giants". And it was everything I wanted and more. Aesthetically beautiful. Everything in its place. A gun brandished at a character going by essentially unnoticed by most of the audience. And not to mention, Bill Murray. And the whole thing put the pair of us in the mood for Indian food. Watching people eat samosas when you don't have one is essentially torture. By this time I was a pathetic wretch. A big ball of ache. So Maria kindly went out and fetched food for us. There must've been spinach hidden in something, because I immediately felt my strength return. The spices cleared my sinuses and the aches waned. I felt strong enough for a few drinks at the Ding... and that's what I did. So, off to the Ding Dong Lounge. Home of the Bucket o' PBR, which has recently become 5 cans of PBR still attached to the plastic six-pack ring at some reduced rate. I dunno... it loses something when not presented in a bucket that could easily have been a citronella candle in another life. This particular scene bore witness to the first public demonstration of my meta-iconoclastic slash fiction. (This stroke of brilliance on my part was the product of a train ride between Sayville and Pennsylvania Station and marks the most depraved writing that has ever issued from a pen held in my hand in my 23 years on this planet. Doubling the atrocity committed was the fact that a mother and two children who recognized me from my days of working at the library were sitting not 10 feet away on the train. They probably thought I was crazy when I began laughing at myself.) It was received exceptionally well by the slash community around me... so well that I may very well post it as an audio entry that will be lauded as the greatest work of slash fiction since Luke and Leia kissed in The Empire Strikes Back. Nighttime. The next day. Maria and I took the bus to Columbia University. It was the perfect October Day. The type of October Day that reminds me why October is my favorite month. The air is cool and clear and dry. The sun actually warms you when you walk into it. Palpable sunlight is probably the most comforting natural phenomenon. It was a perfect day to see They Might Be Giants play an outdoor concert. Adrienne and her young friends joined us. The setlist was surprisingly appropriate for everyone in attendance. Just ignore Flansburgh's momentary lapse into pro-Blue Statehood before Istanbul (Not Constantinople)! -Clap Your Hands -Alphabet of Nations -Doctor Worm -Particle Man -The Famous Polka -In The Middle -No! -Where Do They Make Balloons? -E Eat Everything -Alphabet Lost and Found -Istanbul (Not Constantinople) -Robot Parade And that's not all, folks! Just afterwards, I found out that they were having a signing session. Adrienne gave me a copy of Twentieth Century Phonology to sign, but I was given a sticker collection to have signed, seeing I was a complete idiot and didn't even think to bring my copy of John Henry with me. Anyhow, Maria waited with me in line, which was probably a good idea, since I would've gotten nervous by myself... but then my celebrity tongue-twisting came into full swing once I walked up to Linnell. "Hi John." Good so far. Flansburgh: "Writing an S that way is scandalous?" Me: "What way? You mean like they wrote in old documents like the Constitutions? 'In General Congress Assembled' where the lowercase 's' looks like an 'f'?" Linnell: "Oh yeah! 'In General Congrefs assembled.'" Oh god... what am I doing? I offered my hand for a shake from Flans. "Thanks for comin' out, man." "No problem." Oh god... I embarrassed myself in front of two of my favorite musicians. Oh well... I met them. And I can say that. And... it was a nice day! AWAY FROM THE EMBARRASSMENT! Julie Andrews was having a Question & Answer session regarding her and her daughter's new book. What I know about it: It isn't The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles. But let me tell you something, the questions posed by these kids and Julie's gentle, kind, beautiful, understanding answers melted my icy heart like nothing ever has. "Did you really have all those things in your bag in Mary Poppins?" "Why, yes I did! Mary Poppins is practically perfect in every way!" I think I squealed. Yeah. I squealed. She then proceeded to say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious backwards. Oh! Another favorite question! "Um! I saw Shrek 3!" "Oh really? So did I!" It was... absolutely beautiful. We returned to East Harlem, where I suddenly became a narcoleptic and fell asleep during a very funny episode of Flight of the Concords. Damn colds. After saying goodbye to Maria, I made for Megan's, where Jon and Megan were busy testing and knitting their own Doctor Who scarves. What can I say? I'm a trend setter... or not. We had delicious pasta, discussed our public vs. private issues, made her wall beautiful, drank tea, and laughed at things that may or may not have been funny. The night ended with my narcolepsy kicking in full throttle during an episode of Doctor Who, right after a nightcap of a Pimm's Cup - a fitting end to this weekend. So... that's what I did. Did everyone else have fun? |
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| In Which Iron Chef America and Stargate Atlantis Simultaneously Jump the Shark... | |||
| 04:33pm 10/10/2007 | |||
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...as if both these shows hadn't jumped the shark dozens of times already. I was watching Sci-Fi channel today, and sure enough there was an advertisement for the all new season of Stargate Atlantis. And guess who will be playing a role in this upcoming Ronon-heavy episode. Actually don't. It's Mark Dacascos. He's a no-name. Sci-Fi channel refuse. And also... Food Network refuse as well. You see, this karate master is also THE NEW CHAIRMAN ON IRON CHEF AMERICA. Part of the mystique of the original Iron Chef was that Chariman Kaga was a mysterious character. There were people who actually believed that Kaga was this eccentric Japanese millionaire who broke into Liberace's house late one night to raid his closet. That he erected a gigantic cooking arena and hired 3 chefs to challenge other chefs from around the world to culinary battles. The actor portraying him, Kaga Takeshi, was only known for being the Japanese stage versions of Jean Valjean in Les Miserables and Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar. When Iron Chef America rolled into town like tough shit, riding the coattails of the inimitable Tokyo original, they needed to borrow a bit of that mystique, due to the fact that the chefs chosen for the American show were already established television chefs, only one and a half of which had any real knowledge of their chosen arts. (Batali and Morimoto, in case you were wondering.) So what did the producers decide to do? They claimed that their new Chairman was Kaga's nephew. Did I mention that Mark Dacascos is Hawaiian, and not Japanese? C'mon folks. Don't insult my intelligence like that. I have the internet. I know how to use it. In other news... well, there's a stifling air of sadness and death looming around me nowadays. Kind of a real bummer, considering I've just begun something strange and interesting and fun and new - and no, it's not the Doctor Who scarf for my Halloween costume I'm talking about. |
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